


'Tis The Season

by SeaweedWrites



Series: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2020 Ficlet Challenge, 24 Prompts in 24 Days, Angst, Anything Wrong is My Fault, Christmas, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I Will Try To Be Canon Compliant, I Will Try To Keep Up, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2020, Mystrade Prompt Challenge, No Beta, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rated Explicit Because It May Or May Not Get Steamy, Some FIclets May Not Be In The Same Universe, These Tags WILL CHANGE!, This Is Miss Davis' Fault, Will Jump Around In The Sherlock Timeline, Winter, no promises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaweedWrites/pseuds/SeaweedWrites
Summary: Christmas had always been a bright and cheery affair when Mycroft was a child.As the years passed, Christmas became just another day to endure.But maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the future.This is day 1 of Miss Davis'  24 days of Mystrade advent.
Relationships: Anthea & Greg Lestrade, Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson & Everyone, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037394
Comments: 17
Kudos: 35





	1. 'Tis The Season

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I would like to both blame and thank MissDavis for the prompt list. I am going to try to keep up with this I hope to do one little fic a day (I will shoot for under 1000 words each) up to the 24th, but we will see if I can do it. 
> 
> These will all be Mystrade, with some nice Johnlock thrown in for good measure. I want to make the cute and fluffy, but who knows if some angst might creep in there.  
> Because of the short time period, these are not beta-ed and all problems and such are my own. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Day 1- 'Tis The Season

Christmas had always been a bright and cheery affair when Mycroft was a child. By the time the first day of December dawned, their father had bought a real tree. Mycroft had prided himself on helping with the trimming. When he was young enough to be picked up, his dad would hold him high while he hung the baubles and bells on the highest boughs.

Even decades later, that sweet, woodsy scent of a fir tree sent Mycroft's mind reeling back to those halcyon days when all he cared about was getting good grades and making his parents proud.

By the time Sherlock was born, Mycroft already knew that Father Christmas wasn't real, but Mycroft kept up appearances for the sake of his little brother.

And then Eurus was born, a year after Sherlock.

By the time Sherlock turned seven, the Holmses had moved out of Musgrave Hall, and never spoke of Eurus again.

After that, Christmases were a much more muted affair. Sherlock had already learned that Father Christmas was not real. There wasn't much need to decorate the house. Mycroft's father bought a fake tree, and Mycroft got used to the artificial smell.

Mycroft went to University two years earlier than expected, leaving a nine year old Sherlock at home. There were no decorations in his tiny dorm room- no lights or tinsel, no smell of fir. He had no excuse to not come home on his first winter break, but by his second year, Mycroft was busy enough with his studies that he could beg out of returning home for what he saw as a tedious and awkward affair.

Mycroft graduated with double firsts in Political Science and Business Administration. By the time he completed his studies, Uncle Rudy had already taken Mycroft under his wing at MI-5, preparing him for a career in government, and to eventually take over his position.

There were no holidays when it came to working in government. Crises could come up any time, and Mycroft was busy making contacts and working his way up the pecking order. He was ambitious- not ambitious enough to want a high ranking position that would put him in front of the cameras. He would have sooner died than become the Prime Minister- though he knew that if he'd wanted it, it wouldn't have been hard to achieve.

Mycroft preferred to be in the shadows, working hard, not receiving praise nor scrutiny. He'd craved approbation from his parents as a child, but had long since matured out of needing their approval. He understood that a job well done was its own reward.

He worked Christmases and New Years, Easters and Boxing Days. Not only did he not care for the holidays, but working gave him a built in excuse to not go home. Sherlock had already started and subsequently dropped out of University, and had started on a drug fueled binge around greater London.

And thus started Mycroft's second job- looking after his little brother.

It was as much a full time affair as his actual paying job. But he was able to use the resources at his disposal to track Sherlock's movements and remove him from immediate danger.

One particularly miserable Christmas had been spent in St. Thomas' A&E, pacing in the waiting room while Sherlock had his stomach pumped. Anthea, his PA who had only started the month before, had almost immediately made herself indispensable by helping to track his little brother down.

After that, Anthea had never once asked her boss if he wanted her to decorate the office. She never wished him a happy Christmas. Before leaving on Christmas Eve, she would wish him a good evening, just as she always did when she left.

And then there was the Christmas of 2010- they holiday that Mycroft spent with Sherlock in the basement of St. Barts- identifying Irene Adler's body. Mycroft had thought that it was going to be a danger night. But John had searched Baker Street and hadn't found anything. It was a false alarm.

Four years later, Mycroft spent Christmas watching Sherlock put a bullet into Charles Augustus Mangussen's head. It all went down hill from there.

Sherlock, who'd turned to drugs during the Mangussen case, had apparently decided to make it his mission to overdose before he left the tarmac on the mission that Mycroft had given him. He prattled on about a murder that happened over a century ago, while his dilated eyes darted around the plane, unable to focus. Only the fact that Moriarty somehow still had plans in place years after his death had kept Sherlock alive.

Then Mary died, Sherlock once again tried to overdose on drugs, and John assaulted Sherlock, nearly finishing the job Sherlock started.

And then, Sherrinford. And Eurus. The Holmeses were forced to face truths that they'd buried so many years ago.

It was hell.

It was torture.

Yet, at the end of it all, somehow, they came out better for it.

Sherlock stayed with John while 221B was being rebuilt. When the flat was ready, Sherlock, John, and Rosie moved in. Despite the physical and psychological damage that John had leveled against his brother, Mycroft knew that they were stronger together than they were apart. It took time for Mycroft to forgive John, though he knew that John was good for Sherlock. Despite them both being too stubborn to admit their feelings, Mycroft could see the obvious. They cared for each other deeply.

When the next Christmas came, and Sherlock and John held their Christmas party, Mycroft- who had declined all the invites in the past- arrived early, laden with packages for the inhabitants of Baker Street. The flat was decorated- tasteful but bright and safe for the two year old running between people's legs and squealing with glee.

Mrs. Hudson darted in and out, bringing foods from downstairs. Molly arrived later, as did Inspector Lestrade, also bearing gifts- mostly for Rosie. Drinks were poured and conversation was made. Mrs. Hudson convinced Sherlock to play a Christmas tune on his violin.

Mycroft stayed at a distance, quietly observing. This was not his area of expertise- people. He'd thought Sherlock the same in the past. Now he realized that of the two of them, Sherlock was much more apt to make friends.

“This corner taken?” That Estuary accent, Mycroft didn't have to turn his head to know who spoke.

“By all means, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg, please.”

“Gregory.”

“Close enough.” Greg took a sip of his eggnog, smiling softly at Mycroft. He'd noticed that Greg had been stealing looks at him on and off since he'd arrived. The glances had been getting less secretive and lengthier the more egg nog the Detective Inspector drank. Despite the fact that the inspector enjoyed it, Mycroft had abstained. To him, it was a waste of perfectly good brandy.

“So, what bring you to a party like this?” The goofy smile on Greg's face made it obvious that he'd been imbibing eggnog for a while already.

“Sherlock is my brother.”

“Well yeah, but you've never come before.” That surprised Mycroft- that Greg had noticed. He could pass it off as an obvious observation by a skilled detective, but there was more to it. Mycroft knew that alcohol was good at removing the emotional filter that people hid behind. And Greg looked...

Hurt?

“I was not aware that you were expecting me, Detective Inspector.” Greg had leaned in close as he spoke. Mycroft took the opportunity to lean slightly away. The last thing he wanted to do was read too much into what Greg was doing or saying while he was drunk.

“It woulda been nice.” Greg said, trying to give a non-committal shrug, but failing. Mycroft knew that Greg had been hoping for more opportunities to speak with him- non formal affairs that didn't involve talking about what idiotic thing his brother had done.

“Well.” Mycroft took a sip of his sparkling water, then cleared his throat. “I am here now.” He kept his voice calm, tempering the mix of fear and hope that welled up, bubbling inside his chest. He'd never been one to want a relationship. He considered himself “married to his work” as Sherlock had stated all those years ago.

And yet, John had melted Sherlock's hard exterior.

Was there hope for him, as well?

“Yes. Yes you are.” Greg downed the last of his eggnog, and put the glass to the side. “I know you won' take anything I say now seriously, as I've had.'' He tried to count how much he had drank using his fingers, but after a few moments, he gave up.

“Entirely too many drinks, but maybe we c'n meet up another time. Have a coffee or... bottled sparkling water.” He looked down at Mycroft's drink, then back up to him with a sly smile. Mycroft coughed into his hand, willing the warmth in his cheeks to cease.

“Perhaps.” Mycroft put on his best nonchalant tone. “I will text you tomorrow, and if you feel up to it, we can meet for lunch. The office is closed tomorrow.”

Greg's smile widened. “Its a....” He stopped himself right before he said something that he would regret.

“A meetin'. I think I'm gonna to stick ta water for a while. I'll be back in a mo'.”

Mycroft watched Greg move through the crowd and into the kitchen. A soft smile played across his face. He'd had so many terrible Christmases in his life.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something so much better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft would never admit how much he actually likes listening to the bells ring through the holiday season. 
> 
> But if things go right, there will be a different type of bell ringing in the future.
> 
> Mycroft has to figure out how.

It never bothered Mycroft that his Belgravia flat was close enough to hear the bells ring at Westminster Cathedral. He was not a religious man- never had been. But the bells represented something different to him. They were not holy, nor particularly joyful.

He liked the solemnness of their tone, the timbre of their reverberations. It was simple- physics and sound waves. Mycroft would never claim to be an scientist, like his brother. That didn't mean that he couldn't appreciate the natural order of things. A bell struck in the exact same place would always produce the exact same tone.

But by the same token the tonality carried the imperfections of man. A bell couldn't be struck in the exact same place twice in a row. It was a statistical improbability. Human hands falter, move.

Fail.

His office at MI5 is closer to Westminster Abbey than his flat is to the Cathedral. But by virtue of where his office lies- down in the depths of the well fortified building. he cannot hear them ring, nor can he hear the knelling of Big Ben as he rings hourly from atop Elizabeth Tower.

Mycroft had his driver take a longer route back to his flat during the holidays. He purposefully drove past the Tower, decked out tastefully and subtly- as is the English Way- in green lights towards the top. The London Eye was lit up in bright blues, and the Christmas tree at the base of the Tower twinkled with blue and white lights, with a white star as its crown.

He didn't have to like Christmas to enjoy the festive illuminations.

Mycroft knew well how to time his leaving the office to pass the Tower as Big Ben was tolling. He would close his eyes and listen to the subtitles in the tone, pitch and and volume.

The streets were unusually densely packed the last Friday before Christmas- even for the season, which caused him to miss the chiming of Big Ben as he passed. He hadn't accounted for the rise in both pedestrian and auto traffic that night.

Still, despite the small setback, his mood was not dampened. Mycroft fiddled with a small box in his pocket, turning it around with his long, dexterous fingers. He knew what he had to do. He'd already waited too long, and tonight would be perfect. He'd arranged with Anthea to have Saturday and Sunday free (barring a national crisis) and he intended to make the most of it by not leaving the bedroom any more than was absolutely necessary.

Despite his self assurances that it would go over well, fear and doubt still crept up like a dark shadow, draping over Mycroft like a blanket. It could all go wrong, and he could lose the one man to whom he had ever truly opened his heart to.

“No.” Mycroft said, shaking his head.

“Sir?” The driver looked back through the rear view mirror.

“Apologies. I was going through the events of the day.”

The driver nodded and turned his eyes back towards the road.

The road home.

The road to _him._

It was simultaneously forever and no time at all before they arrived. The driver parked the car in the roundabout and opened the door for Mycroft. 

“Thank you, James. You will not be required this weekend, I suspect.”

“Very good, sir. I will remain on call if I am needed. Good night.” 

Mycroft smiled softly “Good night.”

The gravel crunched under his feet as he approached the front door, his hand still in his pocket, feeling the soft velvet under the pads of his fingers. He paused, took in a deep breath, then entered the security code to unlock the door.

Immediately the smell of curry wafted down the hallway. Mycroft stopped and took another deep breath before removing his jacket and moving the box to his trousers, then continuing down the hall and into the kitchen.

“That smells wonderful, Gregory.”

Greg's face lit up when he saw his lover walk in. It was one of the many things that Mycroft loved about Greg. His smile was so large, warm and genuine. Mycroft leaned in to kiss Greg on the cheek before letting him continue stirring.

“Tried to time it right, but gotta call from my mum. Kept me on almost half an' hour. I love 'er, but the woman can talk.”

“Be nice, Gregory. Your mother is a saint.”

Greg reached over and slapped Mycroft's arse as he walked past to find a wine to pair with the curry. “Yer just sayin' that 'cause she likes you better.”

“She does not. You're her only child.” Mycroft chose a Pinot Noir. He uncorked it and let it breathe, giving Greg a kiss on the other cheek as he passed by again, then leaving the kitchen and heading into the living room. Greg already had a fire crackling in the fireplace, and a radio station was playing instrumental Christmas music at a low volume.

It was perfect.

“Gregory, can you let that simmer for a moment? I'd like to speak with you.”

“Nothin' bad, I hope?” He could hear the edge of nervousness in Greg's tone.

“No. I'd like to speak with you about this weekend.” Anthea, ever the invaluable resource, had arranged for Greg to have the weekend off as well, not that he knew.

Yet.

Greg came in a moment later, only to see Mycroft with one hand fidgeting in his pocket.

“Hey now.” Greg said with a growing smile. “No need for that yet. We should at least eat first.” The wink he gave his lover was scandalous.

Mycroft flushed red, immediately pulling his hand out of his pocket, hiding the box in his clenched fist. “You know quite well that I am not that well endowed that I could... do anything with my hand in my pocket.”

Greg walked over to him, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and leaning in for a deep kiss that left them both breathless by the time it was over. “You are perfect, Myrcroft. Every. Single. Part of you.” He accentuated each word with a kiss, then leaned slightly away.

“Now, what is it that you wanted to tell me? As much as I'd love to continue what I was doing, I haveta get back to the curry soon.”

Mycroft had had a speech drafted in his head. He'd been working on it for several weeks now, but it had all gone out the window after that searing kiss.

So he went with his heart.

“Gregory.” He said softly. Greg looked back, brown eyes boring into blue, all of his attention on the man in front of him.

“I once said that caring was not an advantage. And yet, I watched as Doctor Watson slowly work his way into my brother's life, and then into his heart..”

Greg smile and scoffed a laugh. “If they'd only admit it to each other.”

Mycroft nodded , then continued. “I am... was... the Iceman. Frozen, uncaring, unfeeling.” Greg was about to respond, but Mycroft held up a hand for silence.

“Somehow, you have chiseled away at the cold exterior, and found that, despite my belief to the contrary, I do have a heart. And... it is yours.” He brought his hand forward and opened his fist, using his other, slightly shaky hand to open the box.

“I want you to have my heart for the rest of our natural days. Marry me, Gregory.”

Gregory was stunned, unmoving, unblinking. Mycroft despaired. Had he said or done something wrong? How many ticks on the clock had already gone by? Was he ever going to say or do anything?

And then two large hands pulled Mycroft so forcefully forward that he stumbled, causing them both to tumble down onto the couch.

'Yes. I will.” Somehow Greg managed to get the words out between kissing at any part of Mycroft that he could get to.

A smell a few moments later stopped them both in their tracks.

“SHIT! My curry!” Greg got up like his trousers were on fire and rushed into the kitchen. Mycroft, chucking softly and still holding the box- he hadn't even had a chance to put the ring on his lover's finger- followed behind.

“Shit. Sorry. The bottom's burnt. I think maybe I c'n salvage enough to be edible?”

“Gregory, I find myself hungry for an entirely different type of meal.”

Greg shook his head and smiled. He moved the pot into the sink and turned off the eye. “You seem to like to listen to Big Ben. How about I give you another bell you can ring?”

Mycroft had been about to tell Greg that they had all weekend, but that information could wait. He walked over, took Greg's hand and led him towards the stairs up to their bedroom.

There certainly would be ringing tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once again I am over 1000 words and after midnight. Please forgive me. The only time I seem to have time to write is late at night. 
> 
> But it does feel nice to write again. Its been a loooong time.


	3. 3. Chilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December brought a chill to the air.
> 
> Thankfully, Mycroft had someone who could help keep him warm.

Mycroft shuddered involuntarily, then tightened the scarf around his neck and pulled the ends of his thick pea coat over his leather gloves. As posh and expensive as they were, they were shite for actually keeping out the cold.

“We can make it an early night, Myc.” Greg knew that he was the only one- besides maybe Mycroft’s mother- who could get away with calling him that, and only when there was no one else around chear it. The streets were fairly crowed- there was only a week left until Christmas, but they were isolated enough that he knew he was safe.

“I still need to find something for Anthea and Rosamund.” Mycroft was the only person who called Rosie by her whole name, except for John, when she did something to warrant it.

Thankfully, those times so far had been few and far between.

She’d had her terrible twos, but in the realm of child-rearing, they hadn't been that bad. John had seen some of the two year olds at the nursery he took Rosie to when no one could watch her. Some of those kids were holy terrors comparatively speaking.

Sherlock had horrified his brother with stories from the nursery that made Mycroft regret having a photographic memory.

“How 'bout there?” Greg pointed to a rather posh looking little storefront with robin's egg blue paint and iron fencing besides the two short steps that led to the door. The top of the entrance was painted black, and in a very old fashioned font was painted Les Senteurs, and the word Perfumery painted smaller beneath.

“You should be able to find something nice for that PA of yours. I'm glad you're mine. Most men would be quite jealous of how much time she spends with you!” Greg chuckled.

“I assure you that you are in no danger, Gregory.” Mycroft deadpanned back. “She has been quite involved with her girlfriend since before you and I were... an item.”

“Ah.” Greg smiled and held the door open for Mycroft, who stepped into a bright world of almost overwhelming sights and smells and sounds. He didn't have his brother's proclivity to sensory overload when faced with too much input, but even this tested his limits.

Thankfully, the shop was extremely small, just one tiny hallway. He quickly found a scented candle set that he knew Anthea would like and paid for it, exiting the shop in less than five minutes.

“Whew, that was a bit much, innit? Gave me a headache!” Mycroft merely nodded and gripped the paper bag handles tight. He was actually glad to be back out in the chilly December air, the breeze was already pulling that cloying scent away from his clothing and skin.

Mycroft knew where he wanted to go next, and he walked with a purpose, making Greg jog to catch up.

“Hey, wha's the hurry?” Greg asked.

“The place that I want to visit will close soon, and will not reopen until next Tuesday.” He increased his pace slightly, going north up Elizabeth Street until it intersected with Chester Square, where he took a right and continued on.

St. Michael's Church, which was situated just off of the Square, started to ring its bells. They were not loud, but enough that Mycroft and Greg could hear as they approached. The building that Mycroft stepped into looked like it was an old alcove of the church from the outside. It was a whole nother world inside, which was decorated with bright colors and cheery designs.

“Welcome to Monkey Music!” A cheery woman with long blonde hair and a bright blue tshirt said with a smile from behind the counter. “We don't have any more lessons tonight, but we are open again on Tuesday if you'd like to come back.”

“I would like to book a class for a 39 month old female child and her father.”

The woman's face lit up. “Ah. Ding Dong!”

“Pardon me?” Greg couldn't help laughing at the incredulous face that Mycroft gave the woman.

“All of our classes have names. The one for the three and four year olds is called Ding Dong. She's barely too old for the Jiggety Jig class- that;s for children up to 36 months. Ding Dong is open for children between 36 and 59 months old.”

“Ah.” Greg was still chuckling as the woman went over the rules, location, and pricing. Mycroft paid for a month's worth of classes, and got one free- five classes total.

It was just about time for the business to close when they stepped out of the building and back into the chilly air.

“So, you're done with your shopping, eh?”

“If you are trying to fish for hints, your shopping was done weeks ago, and you are not getting any information out of me.” Mycroft shot his lover a stern look.

Greg laughed and put his hands up, palms out in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay. I get it.” He stepped closer to Mycroft, pressing their sides together as they walked. Normally, Mycroft was not one for public displays of affection, but the streets were starting to calm as the major stores closed for the night. And it was dark enough, when they weren't under the bright streetlamps, that they were – for the most part- in their own little bubble.

“I think we should head back now. I dunno about you, but I'm chilly, and I can think of a few good ways to warm up.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but smiled and nodded. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late, guys. I will be honest, I have some family issues happening, so I might not be able to finish this. 
> 
> If I can't then I am very, very sorry. I will try, but I am not sure that my heart is really in it right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this one was way over 1000 words, but maybe I will be better tomorrow? :)


End file.
